One Reckless Decision

It made it worse, somehow, that she looked so beautiful. Still not the obvious, provocative beauty of a proper mistress, but rather her own potent brand of bewitching femininity that seemed to go straight to his head—and his groin. She looked too good for a sewer rat like him, far too pedigreed and finished and perfected. She was all gold and class and melted chocolate eyes—the kind of woman he would have yearned for heedlessly in his desperate youth, knowing his hands would only dirty her, ruin her, destroy her in the very act of worshipping her. He almost hated her for reminding him of those terrible days, when he’d still operated blindly from his rage, his agonized determination to escape, rather than the cool analytical mind and sharp business acumen he relied on as an adult.

But he was no longer that child. He had exorcised that particular demon, and any outward expression of his darkest rage, many years ago.

“Your father and brother and even your mother have been seen in all the halls of Europe over the past decade,” he said simply, ignoring the unacceptable mix of chaos and desire that surged within him, focusing on his purpose. “You have not. One began to imagine you were merely a legend. A fairy story of the lost Barbery heiress.”

She gazed at him for a moment, then returned her attention to her plate. “I was not lost.” She smiled then, that excessively polite curve of her mouth that put him instantly on alert. “My father and I had a difference of opinion regarding my course of study at university. I chose to follow my own path.”

“What does that mean?” he asked. He was caught by the way the candlelight made her skin glow like rich, sweet cream above the warm golden caress of her gown. He blinked. She did not appear to notice his fascination.

“It means that I chose to pursue a Fine Arts degree, even though my father felt that was a waste of time. He thought Art History would be more appropriate—better suited to cocktail party conversation with potential husbands.” Tristanne toyed with her fork—nervously, he thought, and then finally set it down against her plate. “I wanted to draw, you see. To paint.”

That simply, she reminded him of who they were, and why they were here. Nikos had never had the luxury of indulging the creative impulse—he had been far too busy fighting for survival. And then, when survival was assured, making certain that he would never again even approach destitution, or anything like it. Drawing? Painting? That was someone else’s life. Not his.

“That is not very practical,” Nikos said, unable to keep the bite from his tone. “Is that not the point of university? Practicality? An education in service of your future?”

“You would have gotten on well with my father,” Tristanne said dryly. She shifted in her seat, the candlelight caressing her cheeks, her neck, the hint of velvety shadows between her breasts. “When I opted to ignore his advice, he retracted my funding. I decided to move to Vancouver, which, apparently, sent him into apoplexy, as my father did not care to be defied.” She smiled slightly. “None of this made for pleasant family reunion    s, so you will understand why the halls of Europe were without me for so long.”

There was a subtle mockery in her tone. He ignored it.

“I trust you do not cast yourself as the victim in this scenario,” he said, his voice like a blade. “Those who accept financial support cannot whine about their loss of independence. About feeling crushed or flattened. Everything comes at a price.”

He expected a storm of emotion—tears, perhaps; a repeat of what had occurred in the piazza. But Tristanne only held his gaze, her own surprisingly clear, if narrowed.

“I do not disagree,” she said after a moment. “I am not, I think, the hypocrite you would prefer me to be. I chose not to accept any financial support whatsoever from my father once I moved to Canada.”

Something he could not identify moved through him. He called it anger. Distaste. And yet he knew it was not that simple—or, perhaps, it was not directed across the table.

“You chose?” he echoed. “Or were you disowned?”

“Who can say who disowned who?” Tristanne replied in a light tone he did not quite believe. “Either way, I never took another cent from him.” Her chin tilted up; with pride, he thought. He felt a stab of recognition, and ruthlessly suppressed it. “I may have to wait tables or tend a bar, but it’s honest work. I don’t have much in Vancouver, but everything I do have is mine.”

He could not have said what he felt then, staring at her, but he told himself it was a simmering rage. They were not at all similar, despite her words. Her pride. For what was she really but one more spoiled heiress who made the usual noises about her independence, but only so far as it suited her? She had come running back to Europe quickly enough after Gustave had died, hadn’t she? Did she hope to get into her brother’s good graces now that he controlled the purse strings? What did she know about real struggle, about truly fighting for something, anything, to call one’s own because the alternative was unthinkable?